


And I am the idiot with the painted face

by Pgthesaltygremlin



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Borderline Personality Disorder, Child Abuse, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Insert, Song fic, Suicidal Thoughts, Violent Outbursts, me and my husband mitski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:48:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27163400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pgthesaltygremlin/pseuds/Pgthesaltygremlin
Summary: Just a small Drabble of a vent to a song
Kudos: 1





	And I am the idiot with the painted face

**Author's Note:**

> Massive trigger warnings

_**”I steal a few breathes from the world”** _

it’s cold, well more or less I’m cold. Maybe it’s because I’m lying awake in bed drenched in my own sweat shaking in fear. Laying ther paralyzed as me and my husband by mitski plays on loop on my amazon echo dot. I usually left music on to get to sleep, but right now it wasn’t helping me.   
  


_**“then I’ll be nothing forever”** _

the rooms dark, I hate the dark. It’s not because I think there are monsters under my bed. It’s because there **ARE.** Except these monster don’t hide, they are around me constantly. They flood my mind every fucking day.   
  


it takes me a minute to process the realization that not only am I drenched in sweat but that hot wet tears are streaming down my flushed cheeks. It’s not a big shock though. This usually happens when I wake up from that fucking nightmare. The one I hate so fucking much.

_**”me and my husband we are doing better”** _

I slide my legs out from under the covers and sit up on the edge of my bed, wiping the tears from my cheeks gently. I reach out to my night stand and fumble in the dark for the switch for my lamp, it flicks on and I blink to adjust my eyes to the sudden brightness that tore through the pitch black room. It doesn’t take me long for my eyes to adjust. “Alexa what time is it” I ask the ai, “it’s 2:41 am” it responds before shutting back down. I give a small grumble to myself before standing up and walking to the bathroom, I turn on the light to the bathroom and rest my palms on the cold marble of the sink. My eyes transfixed on my reflection, I pick out the insecurities of myself and indulge myself in that familiar habit of severe self hate for myself. 

_**“and I am the idiot with a painted face”** _

it starts with my arms, counting the many scars and still healing cuts from recently before, then to the underside of my arm at the cuts lining my wrists. My eyes trail upwards to my body, specifically my chest. I’m not curvy, at least that’s what I think, I’m overall pretty flat in my eyes. Then my waist, I’m severely underweight and though I’m terribly skinny and anorexic in my eyes my body’s fat and distorted. I lift my shirt up just a tad, revealing the cuts on my waist that cover over my all to visible ribs, my fingers trace over the scabbing cuts. I release the fabric and let my shirt fall back down to cover the skin, my eyes drifting to my room, fixed on the box of my ferrets ashes on my nightstand. My mom thinks that I use scissors, that’s what I’ve always told her. I walk over to my nightstand and pick up the wooden box and sit down on my bed. I open the golden latches and gently shift the bag of ashes to reveal the razor blade at the bottom of the wooden box. I remove it and put back the ashes and close the box before making my way back to my bathroom to sit on the edge of the tub, blade in hand. O play with it, daring to speed up like a juggler with balls. The smooth cold metal feels nice against my warm fingertips. I dont linger on the thought to long though as I reach for the antiseptic disinfectant pads that are half used already. I open up a packet and wipe down my thigh with it, it’s damp and cold against my skin. It burns the half healed cuts already there, but I don’t really mind. I kinda like the pain if I’m honest. I throw the pad and wrapper in the trash before the blade hovers over my skin. The blade ghosting over the area before I suck in a deep breathe and dig the blade into my thigh, I drag it along doing the same on more areas of my thigh. It’s nice, it’s the feeling of control that I love in this. My life is what I mostly am unable to control so this is what I can control. What I have power over. 

_**“In the corner taking up space”**_

time seems nonexistent from that moment on and only returns when I see blood drop to the white tile of the bathroom floor, bloods dripping down my thighs. I simply watch for a moment or two before reaching out for the damp cloth I’d prepared before. I’m in control of this. This is the only thing that I can control. I couldn’t control what he did to me...what they did to me.. but I can control this.   
  


_**“but when he walks in I am loved I am loved”  
** _


End file.
